


A Different Kind Of Peace

by Tyelca (TreasureHunter)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Annatar's Meddling In Certain Events, Canonical Character Death, Celebrimbor Through The Ages, Execution, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imported from SWG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 13:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20437172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreasureHunter/pseuds/Tyelca
Summary: During various moments in his life, Celebrimbor is forced to reconsider the meaning of peace.Warning: offscreen torture mentioned in chapter 10, canon character death in chapter 11.





	1. Goodbye in Valinor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following quote of the Revolution-challenge from February 2017 on the SWG:
> 
> "Of course, everybody says they're for peace. Hitler was for peace. Everybody is for peace. The question is: 'What kind of peace?'"  
-Noam Chomsky
> 
> Quenya names used.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After swearing the Oath, Curufin comes to say goodbye to his only child.

Telpërinquar sat in his rooms in the royal palace in Tirion, built on the highest ledge of Túna, staring out his window. The streets were silent, and the few who dared to brave the thunderstorm kept their heads down in silent determination. This should be a time for celebration, with everyone gathered before one of the enormous hearths, playing games, participating in light-hearted conversation and sipping wine. Instead, the atmosphere was grim and even darker than the weather that raged outside, and everyone was busy preparing for what would come next. It was hard to imagine it had only been yesterday that his father and grandfather and uncles had sworn to go to battle against the Black Foe; they were now packing their belongings and saying goodbye to those who would remain behind.

The door opened and Tyelpë half-turned at the sound. It was his father who entered; he was clad in dark leather and his hair was bound out of his face: practical garb instead of the flowing silk robes normally worn in the palace. He closed the door behind him and stood there, just watching him, letting his eyes take in as much as possible. Tyelpë did the same; he did not know when he would see his father again, or in what state. Curufinwë came closer and sat down next to him, close enough that their shoulders touched. For a moment his father was silent and Telpërinquar felt the strong shoulder shake through the thick leather that covered his arms. Suddenly he was enveloped in a tight hug as his father clutched him close; and he returned the gesture and breathed in the familiar scent of his father’s black hair, committing it to memory.

Telpërinquar was an adult, yet the way his father held him made him feel like a child again, when he’d scraped his knee and his father swept in to take the pain away. Except now it was he who comforted his father, and Curufinwë released him to look at his face. Tears glistened in his father’s eyes, but they did not fall.

“I shall see you again, my son,” he said, and Tyelpë had never heard his father so vulnerable, or so determined. He felt liquid tickle on his cheeks as his own tears made their way down. “Don’t cry,” his father shushed. “Soon, this entire business will be over; your grandfather will have the Silmarils returned and the Great Enemy shall be defeated. Then I’ll come home to you and your mother, and I’ll never leave you again.”

“You can also stay here,” Tyelpë said softly, and Curufinwë sighed, and the release of air spoke of weariness. “I wish I could too, Tyelpë, but I swore an Oath, together with your uncles and your grandfather. Evil must be extinguished, and if no one else is prepared to fight for peace, then we must.”

“Can I come with you?”

Curufinwë sucked in a breath. “Absolutely not! I shall not let you risk your life in such a way. No, you stay here with your mother, and I will be back before you know it, don’t worry. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“But if you all go fight Melkor, then why can I not go? Everybody goes!” Curufinwë closed his eyes for a moment, and now the tears did fall. He pulled Tyelpë close again, and when he spoke it was a whisper in his ear. “Do you remember how grandfather Fëanáro looked when your great-grandfather Finwë died? I shall never forget the look on his face; it was the first time I realized that sometimes, I needed to be there for him, instead of he for me, as he’d always been. I do not want you to experience the same pain he felt, to see my corpse lying broken and battered in the dust.”

“Then you should not go,” Telpërinquar stated again and his voice hitched.

“I have sworn an Oath, Tyelpë,” Curufinwë said softly. “Not just the one you heard on the square, the one that we all swore, but another one as well. I vowed to myself that I would stand by my father when he needed me most, like he did for me and like I do for you. I cannot abandon him now, not when the safety of the entire world is at stake.”

To that Telpërinquar could say nothing and just hugged his father again, not wanting tomorrow to come. “Stay safe for me, Tyelpë,” he heard whispered in his ear, but in the privacy of his thoughts he made his own promise: to be there for his father when he needed to as his family waged war on the Dark Lord.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>


	2. Goodbye in Valinor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor denounces his family.

The bright light of torches cast vast shadows on the marble halls as Telpërinquar hurried to the throne room. He had avoided it for the last weeks, for he did not agree with what happened there, but was loath to openly announce his sentiments. Family was always a matter of delicacy, he reflected bitterly. He had not spoken out when the Human sought Findaráto’s aid, but his heart had clenched in fear at the gleam in his father’s eyes at the mention of a Silmaril.

Findaráto had gone despite the protests from all parties involved and now he was dead, Artaresto was grieved and in his grief, acted out in anger and his father and uncle had imprisoned Thingol’s daughter.

Telpërinquar wondered if he was the only one who could see where this was going. Ironically enough, that seemed to be the case. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, so he did neither.

It seemed he was one of the last Eldar to arrive in the throne room; the enormous cavern was packed and it took some time to skirt around the edges closer towards the center of the room, where King Artaresto was holding a speech. Telpërinquar did not care to listen to his words; he had heard them often enough in private conversations. His father was made out a thief and a murderer, and what they said about uncle Tyelcormo was best not repeated. It did not surprise him to see his father and uncle were not present.

Telpërinquar was not stupid. He knew his family had made many mistakes - whenever he closed his eyes, he still saw an ocean of floating corpses - and the Doom that Mandos had proclaimed would ensure there were even more to come. Telpërinquar knew all this. The Star of Fëanáro had fallen from the sky and was now burning away all that stood in its path of self-destruction. There was nothing he could do to save the tarnished family reputation, and yet, even though he saw it happen right before his eyes, he hoped that somehow they could escape the Doom. It was a hope that was crushed again and again, but Telpërinquar’s disposition was unable to take a stance so pessimistic.

He was shocked out of his thoughts when he felt the sudden gaze of thousands rest upon him, and he realized a question or statement must have been directed his way. He looked up into Artaresto’s dark eyes that stared him down with an intensity usually only reserved for the House of Fëanáro.

“Excuse me?” Telpërinquar said after a short while. “Can you repeat what you said?”

Artaresto turned away and loud whispers went up out the crowd. _Impertinent_, Telpërinquar was able to make out, and _Arrogant, just like the rest of them_, and he realized his words, meant as a polite inquiry, could also all too easily be interpreted as rude indifference, or even cruelty. He should have remained quiet, not draw more attention to himself than was wise, but Artaresto’s easy dismissal, as if whatever he’d asked had only been a formality and he’d already known what Telpërinquar would answer, sparked something in him.

“Artaresto!” he called out. “Do not assume parentage determines merit and morality of character, for they are entities that are developed by oneself.” With a firm step he marched forward and the crowd parted to allow him through. He saw Artaresto turn back, and Telpërinquar imagined he saw something like interest in the cold stare. “I am not my father,” he said - not particularly loud, but his voice nonetheless carried to all corners of the cavern. The promise he made himself so long ago flitted through his mind. But unlike his father, he was able to break it.

Artaresto had an unreadable look on his face, but Telpërinquar was not impressed. “I denounce the deeds my family performed under influence of their Oath,” he continued and everyone looked at him. Could he take that next step? Would he?

Telpërinquar closed his eyes for a moment and remembered all the happy times with his father, from his very first memory to the fierce warrior that was always near and protected him on the battlefield. He felt tears burn in his eyes, but blinked them away. He would not turn back now. “I’m sorry, father,” he whispered, and only those standing closest to him could hear it.

Telpërinquar took a breath. “I denounce my father, my uncles, my grandfather. I denounce their quest, their Oath and I denounce their heirlooms. I denounce the name _Curufinwion_, and thereby I denounce my family!”

  
Telpërinquar looked straight in Artaresto’s face, who inclined his head as a sign of respect. Aware of the thousands of people looking at him, he turned on his heel left the throne room in a stunned silence.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>


	3. Message from Menegroth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor hears about his father's death.

Together with the survivors, the news of the massacre in Doriath’s capital trickled in. A second Kinslaying, they either whispered or shouted, and Telpërinquar tried to ignore the suspicious looks that were still thrown his way. There was no denying his heritage, and Telpërinquear cursed his his father and uncles, wished them gone with all the fervor Fëanáro’s spirit had passed down to him. Nowadays he often introduced himself as Celebrimbor, the Sindarin version of his name, to prevent people from making the connection; there were but a few who knew his true self here. He did not like to lie about his identity but had gotten used to it, and the freedom the anonymity offered was liberating.

He could not hide his eyes, bright as they were from the Light of the Trees, but people rarely looked at them. They naturally skirted around him, and Telpërinquar did the same. Information and rumors were galore on the central square where the refugees inexplicably all passed by when they first entered the city and today was no different. Telpërinquar was forced to slow down his pace when he neared the square, as horses, carts and armies passed by. There were shouts and bumps and the general nastiness of an overpopulated city, but for the first time since the refugees arrived the weary and defeated atmosphere was lifted and some kind of excitement hung in the air.

Curious, but not wanting to draw attention to himself, Telpërinquar moved closer to the center, where an Elf on a raised platform was speaking to the masses. His hair was brown and he wore the bloodied garb of Menegroth, a soldier of Thingol. The crowd cheered at his words and there were even some market vendors giving away their wares for free in a spontaneous act of celebration, which certainly in these troubled times was something most could not afford.

Finally he was able to make out the words the soldier spoke above the shouting.

“-re dead! Three of them gone! Now peace can return to these lands!” Another roar went up and Telpërinquar missed the names of the departed, but judging the crowd they had to be of the purest evil. A smile played upon his lips. Every slain servant of Bauglir was indeed reason to celebrate, when there was so little else that warranted it.

Telpërinquar wanted to turn around and leave the square now that his curiosity was sated, for he held no desire to participate in the crowd. There was always the fear of being recognized and ostracized, and Telpërinquar was tired of being accused of things he had no part in.

He held almost reached the street that led away from the square when the soldier shouted his message again, and perhaps the wind had turned or the shouting had lessened, but this time his words carried on to Telpërinquar’s ears.

At first he thought he must’ve misheard. The thought was simply ludicrous; despite his treacherous deeds, uncle Tyelco had always seemed so indestructible, able to withstand anything the world threw at him and emerge with a laugh on his face. There was simply no way that he was dead. And uncle Moryo, who used to tell him the most fantastic stories when Telpërinquar was still small enough to fit in his lap, manipulating the fire of the hearth into moving pictures, would never allow Mandos to claim him. Telpërinquar simply could not believe the words, even as the Eldar around him screamed in vengeful joy.

The soldier on the stand shouted a third name, and this one hit Telpërinquar still worse than the previous two. He stumbled back, and were it not for the Eldar who caught him, he would’ve fallen to the ground. A worried face greeted him; “Are you alright?” the Sindar asked. And Telpërinquar grabbed his hand, steadied himself, and responded, “Yes, I do not know what came over me. Thank you.” His words were accompanied by a smile that lifted his cheeks but not his spirit.

The Sindar let go of his hand and glanced back to the speaker. “It is unbelievable,” he said, “that they who came to slaughter us were themselves destroyed. I have heard tales saying their cursed House is unable to die, that Mandos has forsworn them. They said even dead could not stop them; even as corpses they continue.” He paused to take a breath. “Nobody survives Angband,” he added in a whisper.

As if from a large distance did Telpërinquar hear the words, and they sounded too much like the whispers in Nargothrond, and the shouting of the people around them sounded too much like the screams of Alqualondë, and Telpërinquar wanted nothing more than to leave the square and find somewhere private where he could shut everything out. But he controlled himself and nodded to the Sindar, and as he looked into the smiling face he understood for the first time how easy it would be to draw his sword and slit the other Elf’s throat.

Telpërinquar knew where such thoughts could lead; but for a moment he let his fantasy run wild and wondered how different Eldarin blood was from the thick dark liquid that ran through the veins of Orcs when it coated his blade. It was only for moment; but nonetheless Telpërinquar was shocked how easily and how vivid his imagination could sketch such a scene.

He took a few steps back, away from the face that in his mind was covered in red, away from the Sindar, away from his imagination, but most of all away from the truth.

His father _could not_ be dead. He had always been one of the unshakable pillars of his life, a fact around which he had built his entire world. Denouncing him had, for Telpërinquar, not meant he was allowed to die; he needed his father to rebel against. In that moment he did not care about the countless dead in Nargothrond, about his anger and disgust at being the sole heir to another Kinslaying. He only felt anger towards those who dared to kill his father and he viciously hoped they had paid for their crime.

But the intense emotions soon faded away, and the emptiness they left was even worse. He did not shed any tears; but should his father miraculously reappear and invite him to slaughter the entire city of survivors, Telpërinquar would have accepted gladly.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>


	4. Acceptance in Eregion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Eregion in the Second Age, Celebrimbor finds peace.

The Valar had rescinded their Doom and reopened the way to the West. The Noldor were welcome to return to Valinor, and Telpërinquar did not understand why so many accepted the offer. Did they think everything would go back to the way it had been before? Most had participated in the First Kinslaying, although at the time they hadn’t known the reason. Did that excuse them?

And what about the small group of survivors that still proudly wore the Star of Fëanor, whose countenances still glittered with fanatical pride, for what had they left but their pride? Three times they had launched an attack upon the innocent, and three times they shed Eldarin blood. What sort of reception would meet them in Valinor? How could they believe they would find a way back from so much death and destruction? Certainly their bravery in the fight against Morgoth would fade against crimes.

Then again, Telpërinquar thought, perhaps Beleriand had attuned their mind to the darkness, while far away in Valinor the wounds had long since begun to heal; and perhaps that was the true reason he did not wish to return. Telpërinquar was in no hurry to find out. For healing required making peace, and in his case face his family, and he was not so certain he could do that. He had seen two of his uncles during the War, together with him the only survivors of grandfather Fëanáro’s line, but they had not exchanged a single word. He had caught them glancing at him, as if debating an approach, but they had not come. Telpërinquar was glad for that; especially after they’d stolen away in the night, taking the two Silmarils with them, he did not wish to be associated with his family anymore.

He had decided to go East; Beleriand was destroyed and the large continent was nigh unrecognizable. He did not go alone, for not all of the Noldor chose to leave these shores, and many of the Sindar and Silvan did not care for vaunted Valinor. Large processions moved through what was left of familiar terrain, until the ground evened out and began to rise, as the western side of the Ered Luin mountain range came into view.

Telpërinquar did not look back when the lands behind him were swallowed by the sea and spared but the smallest of thoughts to uncle Nelyo and uncle Káno; their time was over, washed away by the cleansing water. He was done with the past and ready for the future. He felt at ease for the first time since they’d crossed the Sea.

He was ready to start anew and be named anew, and everyone called him Celebrimbor now and no longer did they connect him with the House of Fëanor. He wanted to finally live his own life and therefore he marched on and found a place that felt right to him. There he settled, and with him many others, and together they built Eregion; and though he did not wish to lead, he was appointed as their spokesperson in matters of state and trade after Galadriel and Celeborn left. He grew into his role until the notion was no longer detestable to him, though he refused to be titled King; he much preferred to spend his time in the forges he had built, and when Eldar from all over Middle-Earth flocked to Eregion to learn the skills of the hammer, he established the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and they thrived.

And while he never forgot the events of the First Age, he found a happiness and peace of mind in the Second Age that he had not known before. For not just Morgoth was gone, but it seemed the Doom had been lifted from him too, a descendant of Fëanáro, who had received special mention in Mandos’ pronouncement. No more tears; Telpërinquar smiled more readily and his laugh was as brilliant as the silver trumpets that announced his arrival. His name was known far and wide, due only to his own merit, and apart from the last scattered remnants of Morgoth’s army, peace reigned in Middle-Earth.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>


	5. Visit in Ost-in-Edhil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor meets a certain Maia.
> 
> Alternative title: Stranger in the City

The stranger came at the breaking of dawn and the first rays of sunlight peaking through the mountaintops ignited fire in the golden hair and smoked in the shadow to the west. He traveled on foot and bore no supplies; the guards of Eregion had watched his approach carefully, but the stranger carried no visible weapons. When he arrived at the gate, he was allowed in without question; for many came to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain to study and learn. He was pointed to an inn and the headquarters of the guild. Celebrimbor later heard he had accepted these directions without a word.

The stranger did not head to the inn first but made his way directly to the forges. Here Celebrimbor first laid eyes on him, and could tell immediately this was no normal student seeking to be taught. He invited the stranger to his office and offered him a seat, while he himself sank down behind his large oaken desk.

“You are of the Maiar,” Celebrimbor stated calmly. A match sparked in the golden eyes of the being. “I am,” he confirmed. His voice was deep and clear, and possessed a melodious quality.

“What do you seek here?” Celebrimbor asked. In truth he did not wish to entangle himself in matters concerning the Ainur, but he remained courteous. He of all people should know the consequences of defying them. The being seated opposite his desk surprised him, however, when he answered “Knowledge, and to discover more knowledge, so that we may grow in wisdom.”

“Did the Valar send you?”

A small smile played around the stranger’s lips. “I am here of my own volition,” he stated. “Although one can say that the Vala I serve is in need of your legacy, Telpërinquar.”

Celebrimbor showed no outward reaction, but it had been a very long time since anyone uttered his fathername in the language it was meant to be spoken in. In his youth he had not met many of the Ainur and he was unaware of the extent of their powers; he supposed it was not impossible to find out his name, even without the use of special abilities. Still, he took the Maiar in again, making no effort to hide his scrutiny. The golden-haired being waited patiently.

“What about my legacy?” Celebrimbor said. This succession of subjects unsettled him, but he gave no sign of his discomfort. He had long since learned that if people thought they could not hurt you, they stopped trying. Still, he had thought he had gotten over his issues, but perhaps they had merely lain dormant. Celebrimbor reluctantly admitted that he might have pushed his problems away instead of dealing with them.

The Maiar laughed heartily and the sound was warm. “Do not be worried, Curufinwion, for I ask nothing I do not think you are prepared to give. Aulë, Lord of the Earth, has in earlier times been very fond of your ancestors; he thinks it is time for the Star of Fëanor to rise again. I volunteered to be the first to start mending the gaps that have divided us, and through you reach the entirety of this Middle-Earth.”

Celebrimbor was silent for a while, thinking. What the Maiar suggested was on the one hand all he’d ever wanted, but on the other hand he had spent the last millennium trying to release himself from chains of that legacy. “I shall think about your offer,” he decided finally. “You will hear from me within a fortnight. In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable in this city.”

Remembering he had not yet gotten a name from his visitor, Celebrimbor shrewdly stood and said, “Forgive me my rudeness; I have quite forgotten to introduce myself. I am called Celebrimbor.” The Maiar laughed again but followed Celebrimbor’s example. “The fault is mine; as for my name, I carry many and go by even more; but you can call me Annatar.”

“Annatar,” Celebrimbor repeated, rolling the syllables over his tongue. “Lord of the Gifts. Fitting, seeing your purpose here.”

“Isn’t it?” reacted Annatar, and his eyes twinkled merrily.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>


	6. Enterprise in Hadhodrond - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor invites Annatar to help him with a certain project.
> 
> This chapter (as well as the following ones) are split up in two parts, because the length would otherwise be incongruous with the rest of the chapters.

“Annatar,” Celebrimbor says, “there is someone I’d like you to meet.” He opens the door to his study and Annatar follows him. It is the same study where he had conducted his first interview with the Maia; strange how in such a short time the most suspicious of strangers can turn into the closest of friends. In the same chair where Annatar had sat at the time, a Dwarf was sitting; Celebrimbor sank down on his own sturdy-backed one. Annatar remained standing, openly studying the Dwarf.

Celebrimbor did the introductions. “Narvi, this is Annatar, one of the Maiar of Aulë and a very good friend of mine. Annatar, this is Narvi, Lord of his people and brother to my heart.”

Annatar and Narvi shook hands, and Celebrimbor waited until they had made their acquaintance; it was a little stiff and formal as of yet, but he was certain that they would grow to like each other.

“Annatar, Narvi and I are working on a big project, and I want you to be part of it.”

Annatar looked up. “What kind of project?” he asked calmly, but he was not completely successful in hiding his excitement. The glint in his eye, the undertone in his voice, the little telltales that betrayed his true thoughts. Celebrimbor smiled. For all that Annatar was of the Ainur and therefore older than he could even imagine, Celebrimbor often felt like the most mature one out of the two of them.

Narvi spoke before Celebrimbor could answer; “Are you certain we should confide in him in this matter?” Celebrimbor turned to him, a frown marring his face. “I vouch for him,” he responded seriously. “I trust Annatar with my life.” Narvi kept his gaze for a moment, then turned his attention back to the pipe he nursed. “I shall keep you to that,” he muttered, but offered no further comments.

When Celebrimbor turned back to the Maia, he saw Annatar had been following the exchange closely. The Maia raised an eyebrow in mirth, and Celebrimbor returned the gesture. He didn’t know why everyone seemed to distrust the Maia from the moment they laid eyes on him, but since it didn’t seem to bother Annatar, he found himself not worrying about it too much. Still, it hurt; both that they did not trust his judgment and that they condemned his best friend out of hand. If it were only one person, Celebrimbor would have dismissed it as a singular incident, but it happened with absolutely everyone. Even Narvi, whom Celebrimbor knew to be open-minded and whose judgment Celebrimbor trusted without reserve. Until now, apparently.

“What kind of project?” Annatar repeated eagerly, and Celebrimbor grinned. The combination of Annatar’s infectious smile and the plans he had already made with Narvi made him lose his cool composure, and he found himself grinning like a fool.

A few days later they started the journey south, to where Hadhodrond’s Western Gate would be constructed. Celebrimbor spoke, Narvi offered his comments now and then, and Annatar talked without pause. It was a habit that Celebrimbor had quickly gotten used to, for otherwise working with the Maia proved impossible. Narvi too had soon grown accustomed, and his animosity towards the Maia seemed to lessen.

Annatar fell silent when they entered the small valley where the Doors would be constructed. On the far side, the mountain rose straight and high; a lake lay a few meters away from the rock and a natural path circled the trees that grew on the shores. “Beautiful,” breathed Annatar, and his face was filled with wonder. “Indeed,” Narvi said softly as he too stared at the grey rock, as if he could see the Doors there already.

They worked tirelessly until their supplies ran out. Then they returned to Ost-in-Edhil and Narvi took his leave, saying his people needed him. Celebrimbor nodded savagely; he too could not be missed for too long a time. Narvi promised to return in the next spring so they could continue their labor; the beginning was there already, etched in stone, and the Dwarves of Hadhodrond were finishing up the hallway on the other side.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>


	7. Enterprise in Hadhodrond - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annatar thinks the design on the Western Doors of Hadhodrond could be improved.

Celebrimbor let himself fall on his bed and closed his eyes; it was late already and he had only just said goodbye to Narvi, and he felt the pain of his departure in his heart. A soft knock on his door roused him from the pleasant slumber that had sneaked up on him. With a groan he rose and called for Annatar to enter; for who else would disturb him at this hour? It was indeed Annatar who came in, still fully clothed and carrying a pile of paperwork in his arms, which he dumped unceremoniously on Celebrimbor’s nightstand. Sometimes Celebrimbor envied the Maia’s seeming tirelessness; at other times, he wished to just turn his back to his friend and sleep on. However, when Annatar had the look on his face he wore now, Celebrimbor just knew it was going to be another all-nighter. He grumbled in protest, but they both knew Annatar would get his way.

The Maia in question didn’t even bother acknowledging Celebrimbor’s less-than-enthusiastic response. Celebrimbor sighed. As much as he cared for his friend, there were instances he wished to throw him out and lock the door. With another groan he sat upright, legs crossed, and Annatar assumed the same position on the other side of the bed, the papers lying between them. Celebrimbor glanced down and saw they were the plans for Hadhodrond’s Western Gate; what Annatar wanted with them that could not wait for the morning, Celebrimbor didn’t even begin to guess.

At first Annatar was babbling on about small things and Celebrimbor found himself yawning. He knew Annatar was skirting around the topic he really wanted to discuss; whenever he needed time to gather his thoughts the Maia turned to inane babble. Finally Annatar flattened a large sheet on the sheets and Celebrimbor recognized the design of the Doors.

“So,” Annatar said, and when the Sindarin words became slightly accented, the vowels longer and the consonants sharper, Celebrimbor knew that Annatar was nervous and this, more than anything, held his attention. “So,” Celebrimbor repeated, waiting for the Maia to continue. When he didn’t, he sighed inwardly and said, “I take it there’s a reason you woke me at this hour to study a design I made myself?”

Annatar chuckled uncomfortably. “Yes,” he answered. “That’s actually what I wanted to speak to you about,” he added and looked Celebrimbor in the eye. “I think you should put the Star of your House on the Door.”

At first Celebrimbor blinked, wondering if he had heard correctly. When it appeared he had, he said, “Excuse me?”

Annatar’s eyes flitted away. “I knew you’d react like this,” he muttered under his breath. He explained. “I know you don’t wish to be associated with your father, uncles and grandfather anymore, and that you have finally made the people forget you are Doomed and Dispossessed.” Celebrimbor’s face had taken on a cold look, and he saw Annatar’s eyes soften. “I am sorry for my harsh words, Telpërinquar,” he continued gently, “but you need to hear them. It is forgotten that your are Dispossessed; nobody alive blames you for your actions in Alqualondë, but the Star remains a symbol of madness and bloodshed. You can change that, Tyelpë,” Annatar stated enthusiastically, and Celebrimbor flinched at the nickname only his parents ever used. Annatar didn’t seem to notice as he spoke on. “Show that the Star of Fëanor can be cleansed from the blood and fire that tarnish it!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I have seen the Silmarils, but even they were not as brilliant as the emblem of your House during its zenith.”

“Why are you saying this?” Celebrimbor asked and his voice was flat. He did not want to hear it, but knew there was truth in Annatar’s words.

“I have seen the Stars of Fëanor, Tyelpë, a long time ago; and they were brilliant in their design and execution. But I think I am one of the few who recognized that that is what they really were: brilliant pieces of craftsmanship. They would have been nothing without the mind and skill of Fëanor. The same is true for you: play to your strengths, and people shall forget the eight-pointed star ever stood for something else than beauty and innovation.”

“Get out, Annatar.”

For once Annatar stood without objection, gathered the papers in his arms and walked out of the room, but not without throwing a last, concerned glance over his shoulder at Celebrimbor. When he did not move, Annatar quietly closed the door behind him.

Celebrimbor still sat motionless on his bed, his mind far away. He remembered the Silmarils, he remembered the pain they brought, but he also remembered that awful night without an end in Alqualondë. To think at the time he’d looked up to grandfather Fëanáro for daring to go against the Valar! A dry chuckle disturbed the silence, and Celebrimbor belatedly realized he had made the sound himself. He was not going to do this, he told himself. He was not going to break down in the middle of the night. He uncrossed his legs and stretched them out as he laid down again. He knew why Annatar had made the suggestion; for Middle-Earth to heal, its inhabitants had to come to terms with the past and that was Annatar’s purpose here. But the past was personal, and if Celebrimbor himself could not accept it, how could he ever expect others to do so?

He moved and his feet brushed something dry and thin and Celebrimbor raised himself on his elbows to see what it was. On the edge of the bed was a single sheet, probably forgotten by Annatar when he left.

Celebrimbor pulled the paper close with the intention to fold it return it in the morning, when he saw what it contained. Drawn in exquisite detail were the Doors of Hadhodrond, but with a single addition: an eight-pointed star was drawn in the middle.

Celebrimbor stared at it, denying all thoughts that swirled through his mind, knowing he would not be able to fall asleep that night.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I normally don't do endnotes, but this time I'm curious: what do you think Annatar's goal is here? His motives are vague and they can be interpreted multiple ways and Celebrimbor only sees what he wants to see.


	8. Treason in Tharbad - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annatar has taken Celebrimbor prisoner.

It had been almost a hundred years since Celebrimbor last heard that deep and clear voice, the words carrying as if they were sung instead of spoken. The flap of the tent was thrown open and Celebrimbor laid eyes on the one person whom he’d trusted and who had betrayed him. For some reason he had expected to see a monster, a horrible mutilation of Morgoth that closed in on him. Instead Annatar was just like he remembered, with golden hair and golden eyes. He wore an armor created out of a black metal Celebrimbor didn’t recognize, but the style was clearly of Eldarin origin.

With a careless wave of his hand he dismissed the guards that stood watch in the prisoner’s tent - Orcs and Men who had chosen to ally themselves with Morgoth’s Lieutenant; Celebrimbor doubted they were aware of the true identity of their Lord.

Then Gorthaur stared down at him for a few moments, a curious expression on his face. His features, which not so long ago Celebrimbor could read effortlessly, were closed to him. Then he knelt down and his expression became once more familiar, and it was Annatar and not Gorthaur who looked at him. A pale hand rose and cupped his cheek, tracing the wounds there that were just beginning to scar.

“They’re healing nicely,” Annatar mumbled, more to himself than to Celebrimbor. The Eldar yanked his head away and dismay flitted over Annatar’s face before it reshaped into the familiar grin. And though he knows he is face to face with the Gorthaur, try as he might to convince himself otherwise, Celebrimbor’s mind still tells him this Maia is Annatar, who had been his closest friend for centuries, whom he’d entrusted with all his secrets and who had kept all of them faithfully. He did not understand how he could have missed this, how he had not suspected a thing before suddenly all sixteen Rings of Power they’d made together fell under the Shadow. Why had he been to proud to listen to the advice of all those who warned him for Annatar? How had he let himself get so caught up in Annatar’s net? How could he have been such a fool? Though he does know where the slight accent came from, now; the elongated vowels and sharper consonants are directly traceable to the Black Speech.

“Come now, Celebrimbor,” Annatar said, and there was not a trace of mockery in his voice. If he didn’t know better, Celebrimbor would almost have called the tone wistful. “You deceived me,” he said and his eyes were cold.

“Don’t you remember our very first meeting? Nothing what I said was untrue.”

“That in itself proves my point. Our very first meeting was not in my office, as you are very well aware,” Celebrimbor snarled. “It was during the War of Wrath on the plains of Anfauglith that we crossed blades for a short moment; I should have recognized you when you came wandering into my city!”

“In every lie there is a grain of truth,”Annatar replied breezily. More seriously he continued, “But you didn’t recognize me because I did not want you to,” Annatar responded and his tone was molten gold, intended to bedazzle and persuade. Celebrimbor was not fooled for a second. “There is a reason you did not fall under my blade then and there,” Annatar continued. “With the Host of Valinor encamped before Angband’s Gate, I felt it wise to leave open a few options, as it were.” He grinned. “You were Doomed and Dispossessed anyway; nothing of your fate is of my making.”Celebrimbor stared at his captor in veiled horror, but a glint of gold around Annatar’s finger caught his eye and averted his mind. Certainly, Annatar had always loved his gold and his jewelry, and in hindsight Celebrimbor wasn’t at all surprised he had chosen a ring of all things as a focus for his power, but he always wore multiple bands around his fingers. Annatar followed Celebrimbor’s gaze to the single golden ring that adorned his right index finger. His face relaxed minutely as he saw the band, but then he raised his eyes and looked straight at Celebrimbor again. The eyes, the same hue of gold as the ring, pierced into his thoughts but Celebrimbor was fairly certain Annatar would not find what he was looking for.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the Battle of the Gwathló, where Sauron was defeated during the War of the Elves and Sauron, took place in/near Tharbad, I assume Tharbad was at least momentarily under Sauron's control.


	9. Treason in Tharbad - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor understands something fundamental about Annatar.
> 
> This picks up immediately where the previous chapter, Treason in Tharbad - Part I, ended.

Celebrimbor, however, had his confirmation. “There was still no reason to lay waste to my city,” he changed the subject. Although his hands were bound, he tongue was free to speak, attack and defend himself.

“Your city?” This time Annatar did mock. “This is the second time you have named it so. All those years you spoke to me about how you did not wish to rule, how your decision in Nargothrond was the right one, and now you say Ost-in-Edhil is yours?” He laughed. “And then you have the guts to call me the Deceiver!”

“Yet you lied,” Celebrimbor retorted, “not only to me, but you deceive yourself also. For you told me that the Vala you served needed me, but Morgoth has long since been excluded from this world. He is gone, Annatar, and he won’t ever come back!”

Annatar was still knelt close and that was the only reason why Celebrimbor saw the golden eyes flash in pain, in anger, and for the first time since he discovered Annatar was just another mask the Gorthaur donned - the words _I carry many and go by even more_ resound in his head - he empathized. Involuntarily, but the emotion was there. In all their years together they had almost never spoken of the past, but in the few conversations they had had on the subject Annatar had never once mentioned Morgoth, and when Celebrimbor uttered the name Annatar had always been quick to change the topic. It is only now that Celebrimbor understands why - Annatar had loved Morgoth, in a way not entirely unlike how Celebrimbor loved his father.

This truth was entirely foreign to Celebrimbor, but there was no denying the emotions in Annatar’s eyes. The stinging words Celebrimbor had meant to say died on his tongue. In this instant it isn’t Gorthaur the Cruel who has him imprisoned like he intends to imprison all of Middle-Earth; it is Annatar breaking down and Celebrimbor is there to comfort him. Then Annatar composes himself and the moment is gone, and they are once again back in the real world. The discovery has shocked Celebrimbor and shaken him to his core, for despite his allegiance to Morgoth Annatar was pure in a certain way, honest and talkative and excited and so very bright. Celebrimbor did not think even a Maia could fake that for more than three centuries. He remembered Annatar’s words: _In every lie there is a grain of truth_. It only meant that he’d trusted a sworn enemy and did not even have the excuse of being fooled by a disguise.

The worst thing was that the Annatar he’d known was still there, and not at all a different entity than Gorthaur the Cruel, but one and the same. Celebrimbor looks into the golden eyes and knows these eyes are the same ones Findaráto saw in his final moments, that Lúthien saw underneath Huan’s jaws. He still could not imagine the golden orbs filled with anything threatening or menacing, and even now there was a trace of pain in them.

“Melkor,” Annatar began, stressing the name, “will come back.” It was a statement, not a wish, and despite everything Celebrimbor’s heart broke a little at the unwavering faith the Maia displayed. He saw Annatar would destroy the world ten times over if it meant for the original Dark Lord to return. And then suddenly Celebrimbor understood, how Annatar could be his genuine friend for centuries and still betray him like this. It was not that he did not care about Celebrimbor, Narvi, or all the others whom the Maia had gotten to know during his time in Ost-in-Edhil; he simply cared infinitely more about Morgoth. And it is something Celebrimbor could very well understand, because for a long time he’d felt the same way about his own father. It had taken a lot of doubt and a great deal of conversations with his conscience ere Celebrimbor had been able to make the decision he made. And with Annatar Celebrimbor couldn’t even begin about consequences, for his own hands were stained just as red as Annatar’s.

“He is not returning from the Void, Annatar,” Celebrimbor said gently but his words fell on deaf ears. Annatar refused to believe anything else as the curtain fell before his eyes and he seemed Gorthaur once more, rising and towering above Celebrimbor.

“Now,” that same musical voice said, “I have no desire to hurt you, Celebrimbor, but I will if I must. Where are the Rings I made?”

“The Rings we made, you mean,” Celebrimbor corrected the Maia. “You would not have been able to create them without my knowledge and guidance,” Annatar remarked, but Celebrimbor ignored the words. “I shall not give up their location, Annatar,” he added. “You can do to me whatever you wish, but I am no traitor.” He defiantly looked up at his friend and for a moment their eyes met. Celebrimbor refused to avert his gaze first, so it was Annatar who eventually shrugged. “You already are, whether you believe it or not,” he stated with a soft smile.

His hand, the one with his own Ring on it, caressed Celebrimbor’s black hair and the gesture was so familiar, so well-known, that for a few seconds Celebrimbor leaned into the touch, before Annatar removed his hand again.

“Like I said,” Annatar grinned, “you are a traitor already.”

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	10. Farewell in Middle-Earth - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor has a final conversation with Annatar.

Celebrimbor was tired. After weeks of torture he didn’t feel the pain anymore and his parched throat stopped whining for water. His left eye was half-lidded and his right eye wouldn’t open anymore, but he was determined to remain awake. He refused to give the foul creatures who came in every day the satisfaction of dying on them; he was too proud to allow himself such an end. The treatment he endured was harsh, but not infinite; he had calculated that the Orcs only stayed for a little more than four hours a day, which left him with enough time to heal in order to survive the next day, and to think.

Perhaps not surprisingly, for the first time in centuries his mind went out the uncles he had lost long ago. Had uncle Nelyo experienced the same feelings of despair, pain and eventual numbness? Celebrimbor had not been near him as his father had kept him away until uncle Nelyo had sufficiently recovered, and he had never dared to ask. It was easy to forget the strength he must have possessed to survive in the hands of Morgoth himself for so long, and remain sane afterwards. Especially because of that last part Celebrimbor’s respect for his uncle grew immensely. Celebrimbor had so often condemned his entire family for the crimes they’d committed that he’d forgotten their strengths. He felt so weak now in comparison to his uncle, who had survived so much worse.

Celebrimbor was ashamed to admit he’d broken under the tortures inflicted and revealed the location of the sixteen Rings of Power, as well as the existence of three more. Annatar had personally come in to see him and found him sobbing in anger, still chained to the pole. The Maia had taken him into his armored arms and shushed him, and to his eternal embarrassment Celebrimbor had indeed calmed down under the soft administrations. After that, he had refused to speak any more, especially when Annatar gently probed about the three other Rings he’d made. After several more tries the Maia gave up and left, but not before saying, “There is hope for you yet, my friend. Perhaps one day my armies will march under your banner.” Celebrimbor had shivered at the promise in those words. The next day the Orcs returned with their whips. That had been two weeks ago; now, he just wanted to sleep. Had he not fought his wars? Had he not redeemed himself, atoned for his sins and mistakes? He was too exhausted to contemplate the answer.

Footsteps sounded loud in the silence of predawn. Celebrimbor gathered his energy and lifted his head as the flap of the tent was opened and a tall, lithe form slipped inside. It was Annatar. Of course, Celebrimbor thought. He was close to a breaking point, he knew it, and there was nothing like an old friend with a familiar face to tip one over. For once Annatar was not elaborately dressed, either in armor nor in flowing robes; the only other times Celebrimbor had seen him like this was when working in the forges or while traveling. Annatar had done neither, for ever since Celebrimbor had been captured they were camped at Tharbad, and the smell of coal and sweat was absent. As it was, the Maia wore simple black trousers and a sleeveless black tunic; two golden bands stretched around his bared upper arms and hooked into flesh to keep them in place while his one golden ring adorned his right hand. His hair was bound out of his face by a black leather tie and he wore a single golden chain that pierced through the outer length of his ear multiple times. Compared to Annatar’s usual assemblage of jewelry, he was very bare indeed.

Celebrimbor didn’t know whether the Maia presented this picture of innocence and vulnerability for a purpose or not; knowing Annatar, it could be either way. It did work, though; Annatar was keen on appearances, and it was a sign of trust that he showed up like this.

The Maia regarded him for a moment critically, then dropped unceremoniously to his knees before the pole so that he was on eye level with his prisoner. For all his focus on presentation, Annatar had always been surprisingly careless with his carefully assembled outfits.

“You are not going to last long, my friend,” Annatar spoke softly after checking Celebrimbor’s wounds. Celebrimbor had half a mind to remind him who exactly was responsible for his situation, but exhaustion won out. Annatar must have seen something on his face though, for he said, “You are a direct descendant of Fëanor, Telpërinquar; your Doom was decided long before our paths ever crossed.” It was true enough, but that didn’t mean Celebrimbor didn’t hold Annatar directly responsible for his current circumstances. Again it must have showed, for Annatar chuckled.

“Why have you come?” Celebrimbor managed to bring out, although the words were barely recognizable and his throat flamed up in protest. Annatar sobered and waited a few moments before answering, and Celebrimbor saw he was deciding on what to say.

“I have come to say goodbye,” Annatar finally answered and from his voice Celebrimbor understood this was not just another game. He swallowed to wet his throat, but the motion only irritated his sensitive flesh. “I shall ask you one more time,” Annatar suddenly continued, “and I shall grant you a swift and merciful death if you answer me honestly. Where are the three Rings you made without me?”

Celebrimbor kept silent and watched as Annatar’s eyes grew hard. The Maia waited, his gaze ordering Celebrimbor to reveal the location of the three Rings, but Celebrimbor did not falter. When it became clear Annatar’s trouble was for naught, the fire in the golden eyes died down before dulling completely and Annatar looked away. “You are a traitor and I have offered you mercy multiple times now,” he said in an unreadable voice. “But you refused time and time again. Now face the consequences of your choice and die a traitor’s death.”

Annatar did not look back as he rose and left the tent. The encounter left Celebrimbor filled with a nameless dread, but the feeling was muted, as if coming from far away. For many hours after he was left alone; even the Orcs tasked with his torture did not make an appearance. Celebrimbor was grateful for the respite, but was nonetheless unable to drop his guard and relax after the conversation with Annatar. Yet for many hours nothing happened; the filtered sunlight that fell into the tent cast his shadow on the ground and Celebrimbor watched and waited as it made half a circle around him. Then the light faded and Celebrimbor was alone in the dark.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>


	11. Farewell in Middle-Earth - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor is executed.

He hung limp in his chains at the time a small band of Orcs entered; almost twenty-four hours had passed since Annatar had left. The Orcs carried various tools and Celebrimbor expected they would release him and bring him wherever Annatar had ordered him brought; thoughts about escape crossed his mind, but Celebrimbor was too weak to act on them.

However, the Orcs did not even touch the chains he hung in; in open-mouthed amazement Celebrimbor watched as they took down the tent around him and unearthed the central wooden pole from deep in the ground. This they lifted on their shoulders and the chains pulled Celebrimbor forward; his legs scraped over the ground and the coarse earth entered his wounds. Celebrimbor didn’t even feel the pain anymore; it was as if his body was shutting down and he knew he was dying.

He wasn’t certain for how long he was being dragged away or where he was being taken, but his fuzzy mind estimated it was neither very long or far. Then the pole was put upright in the mud again and Celebrimbor sagged against it, closing his eyes against the sunrise. A shadow fell over him then, and Celebrimbor looked up to see an Orc, different from those who’d brought him here, tightening the chains that held him to the wooden pole and adding some new ones securing his arms and legs to the wood. After the creature was done Celebrimbor was unable to move a single limb, even if he’d had the strength to do so. The Orc grunted as he moved out of the way; Celebrimbor’s eyes had adjusted enough to look into the east.

He saw black silhouettes against the golden sun, standing casually in the muddy field. They all held a bow and had placed an arrow on the string and Celebrimbor understood. This was his execution.

Despite his threats otherwise, Annatar was merciful this way, for though it would hurt, his death would also be over quickly and that was much preferable to being whipped day after day. It was more honorable as well. Celebrimbor felt how the morning sun warmed his face and didn’t see the first arrow fly at him, penetrate his abdomen and pin him to the pole. He looked down and saw a black shaft protrude from his stomach and a thin stream of red blood vividly paint his filthy clothes. The arrow carried a single feather of gold and Celebrimbor knew Annatar had fired the shot. He didn’t have the time to think about it as another salvo was released. Piercing the air, they each met their mark and Celebrimbor felt their impact, though not the pain.

His vision flashed golden once before it faded to black.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>


	12. Reunion in Mandos - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor realizes he is dead and in Mandos.

When consciousness returned to Celebrimbor, he first became aware of a lightness in his limbs, almost as if he were floating. He was pleasantly warm and could feel his extremities again; they were blissfully free of pain. He had no desire to move or open his eyes and for a long time he simply basked in the feeling of existing. Eventually questions began to rise though, like where was he? What had happened to his numerous injuries? He remembered the sight of his own body with arrows sticking out of his flesh, and the thought occurred to him that he might be dead. This, in turn, would mean he resided currently in Mandos’ Halls as a disembodies fëa; Celebrimbor was not entirely certain he wanted to verify that thought and for the longest time he kept floating, trying to convince himself to open his eyes. Did he still have eyes?

It was this scientific aspect that pushed him to finally leave the bubble of warmth; from the moment he’d decided to explore Mandos he gradually became aware of his surroundings. The soft earth beneath his feet, the cool air like a soft breeze, the echoing sounds of a thousand voices. At the same time he noticed that he did not truly have the body parts necessary to sense these things, but somehow he did; Celebrimbor did not think about it too much. Being dead still came as some sort of shock, even though he’d expected and even welcomed his end, and in hindsight it was foolish to expect physical laws could be applied in Mandos.

Celebrimbor looked down upon his body that simultaneously was and was not there and saw he was clad in a dark robe with a blue sheen to it; it was and was not real in the same indescribable way as his body. The scars he’d gotten as Annatar’s captive were gone, but the callouses on his hands, gained during countless hours in the forge and in battle, were still there.

His surroundings were equally present-and-not, like a maze of glass; Celebrimbor felt he could see for miles and miles, but blurred walls blocked his way when he tried to move through them. He was currently in some sort of dead end, with only one way leading somewhere out. Following the path through the maze, Celebrimbor was unaware how much time passed, or if time passed at all. He didn’t grow tired or hungry and there were ever new crossings, intersections and corridors branching off. Celebrimbor’s keen mind noted that many of the halls overlapped others, but no ways were blocked. And during all that time he saw no one.

Were he still alive, such solitude would have put him on guard, but now he felt strangely calm inside. With measured strides he chose random ways in the maze, without seeing an exit. Then again, Celebrimbor wasn’t searching for one, and the moment he realized this, some of the transparent walls bled away to allow him straight passage. Celebrimbor followed the new route and it didn’t take all that long anymore for him to see a shape in the distance, then another, and then another. The closer he came, the more people he saw, mixing and mingling, but also gliding past each other as they were in their own private world, and there were even some who had retreated to private corners, as well as walked into corridors with high arches and fading from view when they turned out of sight. How that could be in an entirely open space was something Celebrimbor was unable to tell.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>


	13. Reunion in Mandos - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor is reunited and reconciliated with his father.

As he neared he saw the many faces as through a mist, close yet away, sharp yet blurry, some he recognized, some he did not. But there was one face among the many that was clearer than glass, sharper than diamond, standing in a group notably separate from others, and it was the face of his father.

Their eyes met and for long moments Celebrimbor couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. A tear fell from the ashen face of his father as he detached himself from the fëar Celebrimbor now recognized as his uncles and raced towards him. Other fëar looked on disapprovingly, though Celebrimbor couldn’t say whether this was because of a breach of protocol or because of who his father was. It did not matter; he was done caring about the opinions of others.

When he regained control of his limbs, Celebrimbor too broke into a sprint and they reached each other somewhere in the middle of the crowd. His father grabbed his shoulder and pulled him close, enveloping him in a tight hug from which Celebrimbor never wanted to be released. He felt wetness on his shoulder and Celebrimbor too could not contain his tears. He was reminded of the embrace they shared in Valinor, on the eve before departure. It was so long ago and Celebrimbor had been so innocent, both to the ways of the world and to the truth, and he wished with his whole heart to turn back time and return to that evening.

His father on the other hand had seemingly not changed at all, although Celebrimbor’s perception might have been altered; for he remembered Curufinwë from their last moment together in Nargothrond, just after he had denounced his loyalty, and in his mind’s eye he saw again how his father’s eyes grew cold and his features closed down, with only disappointment showing through. Celebrimbor had turned away then, and that had been the last time he saw his father.

While not regretting his decision, now Celebrimbor wished he had acted more open and less haughty, but wish as he might the past could not be changed. So he clung to his father, for the first time in two thousand years, and breathed in the familiar scent that meant safety. He heard his father whisper nonsense in his ear and let himself be comforted by the words.

“I’m so sorry,” he heard his father say, “for everything. All bad things that happened to you were because of me. I do not ask forgiveness, for I know I am not worthy of it.”

“I’m sorry too, father,” Celebrimbor answered. What exactly he apologize for, he didn’t specify; perhaps for his final harsh words, perhaps for breaking his promise to stand behind his father, or perhaps even for not remaining in Valinor.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Tyelpë,” he heard and flinched almost unnoticeably. Curufinwë, who still held him pressed close, did note however, and with a frown he studied Celebrimbor. “What is it, my son?” There was the carefully controlled rage in Curufinwë’s voice, that even while in Mandos promised death to any and all who threatened to hurt his only child. Celebrimbor did not want to spoil their reunion, so he muttered, “Nothing, father.”

But Curufinwë had always been able to spot any lie from him, and he saw through this one too. “You can tell me,” he said gently while stroking Celebrimbor’s cheek.

“Annatar… nay, Gorthaur was the last to name me so,” Celebrimbor spoke. A muscle in his father’s face tightened at the name, but locked in Mandos there was little either of them could do. Celebrimbor sighed. “He was my friend for such a long time, and I feel so foolish for trusting him. But even now, my heart still yearns for his company, his conversation and his laugh; the Annatar I knew was so different from the Gorthaur that terrorized Beleriand, and yet they are one and the same.”

His father remained silent as he spoke, but when he was finished Curufinwë let out an unnecessary sigh and Celebrimbor saw his father forcibly relax. “You are dead now, Telpërinquar, and Gorthaur is directly responsible for that. But being dead, there is nothing you can do except wait to become alive again.” Celebrimbor recognized the wisdom of these words and the futility of the dead, and nodded. He also liked the sound of his fathername rolling from the tongue of the one who was meant to pronounce it, and decided that here in Mandos, where all were dead and all were judged, there was no need to cling to a Sindarin translation of his name.

“Now,” his father said as he led Telpërinquar back to his uncles, “let us not speak of such things. There is time enough to sift through every possible nuance of every topic imaginable, so let us not rush.” Curufinwë made a mocking sound that was almost entirely bitter and defeated. “Welcome to true eternity, my son.” Softer, he added, “I will never leave you again.”

Telpërinquar thought back to that one evening in Valinor, when his father had promised the same, and nodded.

This story archived at <http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/viewstory.php?sid=3108>


End file.
